


eyes on fire

by pendules



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Fantasizing, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Self-Hatred, Shame, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-04 06:23:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5323859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pendules/pseuds/pendules
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He knows he should just get his stuff and hightail it the fuck away from there, but something in the pit of his stomach stops him: desire, longing, a need to know what Adam looks like when he's alone, how he touches himself.</i>
</p><p>Or: Ronan secretly watches Adam in the shower and has a lot of feelings about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	eyes on fire

**Author's Note:**

> This is really self-indulgent and really fucked-up. Jesus. Sorry.
> 
> (Also, swimmer!Adam and artist!Ronan are basically canon to me now. Not sorry about that.)

He thinks it's pretty obvious the first few months, how much he stares at Adam. Or maybe it would be if Adam wasn't so focused on school or if he wasn't so focused on Gansey or if he wasn't so focused on deliberately making himself small and inconspicuous, drawing attention away from himself and his uneven haircut and his secondhand sweater. It's funny that he thinks he's doing a good job of it when he's the only thing Ronan ever sees.

And then Gansey starts inviting him along to hunt for the ley line and he starts noticing Ronan's lingering gazes and it's dangerous, suddenly, and too _real_. He's too close: sitting in front of him in Latin class, next to him in his car, shoulders jostling in hallways. Close enough to touch sometimes, or trade insults with, or goad into stupid, reckless hijinks when he looks like he needs it. Close enough to _want_ , tangibly. So, he locks it away in a box in his mind and doesn't disturb those thoughts.

Except, sometimes, it's impossible to look away.

He doesn't plan on going to his swim meets, but Gansey drags him along. Adam's graceful and powerful as he cuts through the water, like he's someone else, or like he's forgotten all about the quiet, unobtrusive boy he pretends to be. It's everything Ronan's always seen, manifested for the rest of the world, the strength and intensity in his eyes translated into the sleek, sure movements of muscles and limbs.

Ronan drinks him in like he's been dying of thirst.

*

It's hard not to look at him in the locker room: skin tanned and freckles sun-kissed, hair falling into his eyes and curling at the ends, beads of sweat rolling down the back of his neck, the gently undulating muscles in his ripcord-tight back (he wants to rub the tension out from there; wants to press soft kisses in the dip between his shoulder blades).

He forces himself to not think about it, to close his eyes, to turn away. It's like a mantra: _Get through it, stop staring, leave it alone._ Most of the time, he hastily showers and changes, pretending he has better places to be or better things to do than engage in locker room tomfoolery.

Only one day their gym teacher keeps him back to give him a stern talking-to about something distasteful he'd said about Carruthers' parents (he's pretty sure he saw Adam smirking almost imperceptibly, so it was totally worth it, really), and when he gets back to the locker room, it's empty. 

Okay, not _entirely_ empty, because one of the showers is still running. He's feeling bored and annoyed enough to scare the shit out of whoever the straggler is and tell them to fuck off, so he slowly makes his way down the row of lockers. The steam clears, and he's about to hiss out a threat — But Ronan would know the line of his shoulders anywhere (because he sits behind him in Latin, because he's memorized it, because he freezes in time whenever Adam takes his shirt off). And oh, _shit_. He backs off a few paces, as quietly as he can possibly move. He knows he should just get his stuff and hightail it the fuck away from there, but something in the pit of his stomach stops him: desire, longing, a need to know what Adam looks like when he's alone, how he touches himself.

So, he inches forward a few steps, and stops in his tracks.

Because God, he's _beautiful_. Head bowed under the hot pound. Wet hair dark against his skin. Sheets of water cascading down the planes of his lithe, lean back. It looks like he's been there for a while, just standing under the stream, probably lost in thought, letting it wash away whatever he desperately wants it to.

His skin's gone slightly pink from the heat. And they're captivatingly pronounced against his flushed shoulders: the freckles that are lightly dusted all over like constellations. He wants to count them, wants to remember every single one, for later, for dreaming, forever. There's a cluster of freckles exactly in the middle of his shoulder blades that he wants to press his mouth to, badly.

He's jealous of the rivulets flowing down the line of his neck: he wants to touch _right there_ , wants to taste that spot. And he wants to _draw_ him, suddenly, like _this_. He can feel the pencil in his hands, knows exactly what that stroke would feel like; he could do it with his eyes closed, probably. And he hasn't actually picked one up in years and years, but Adam Parrish deserves to be captured like that, deserves to be captured by someone far more talented, deserves to be lovingly cared for and admired and _worshipped_. Deserves more than sharp words and sharp edges that only know how to _hurt_.

His shoulders aren't as broad as Ronan's but they're not dainty either; they're solid, angular, even if they're hunched most of the time, trying to make himself invisible. They're swimmers' shoulders; they're shoulders that are strong enough to hold the weight of the world. He wishes he could lighten that load, wishes he could carry them lighter and relaxed and free for once. He hopes someday he won't have to diminish himself (to survive, to avoid unwanted attention); that he could be as strong and bright and present as he is in Ronan's dreams.

His shoulders gracefully taper to a narrow waist and Ronan wonders if his skin is tender there sometimes, when his t-shirt rides up, wonders what it would be like to rest his hand just there, lightly run his fingers along his side. There isn't a lot about Adam that's soft, but he thinks _that spot right there_ — he absently wonders if he's ticklish or if he'd lean into the touch. Somehow, that feels even more invasive than all the very present lustful thoughts.

His hip bones are sharp but elegant, somehow; he wonders how his own hands would fit over them, if his fingers would just slot into place perfectly like they were meant to hold him there; he wonders what it would be like to leave a mark there with his teeth.

The backs of his thighs are still milky-pale, sprinkled with light hair (he definitely doesn't want to bite them); his calves are all lean muscle from hours and hours spent in the pool. He imagines what his legs would feel like wrapped around his waist; imagines him above him, keeping him in place with his thighs straddling him. He'd let him — he'd let him do anything he wanted, if he asked.

He's never let his eyes roam so low before, but his ass is nice and firm and full. And it's a physical itch under his skin now: wanting to touch, _needing_ —

Adam twists his body under the spray, allowing better access to the side of his neck. Ronan presses himself back against the lockers, knowing he's caught in shadow, that he won't be seen.

He doesn't stop looking, though, even if he's risking being caught now. There's a dark bruise right above his hip; it's clearly a couple days old at least, and he's remembering his stiff movements the week before and he feels a spike of anger in his gut, his hands instinctively curling into fists at his sides.

And he knows this isn't _right_ , looking at him like this; he knows Adam would hate him if he knew he saw him like this, exposed and vulnerable, with all his control taken away. He feels sick with guilt for a moment, ready to walk away to deal with his shame and spare Adam any more of his filthy want.

But then Adam's hand snakes down in front of himself and he can't move or breathe. Head tilted to the side, eyes closed, he gives himself some distracted pulls, soft sighs escaping from his throat. He wonders what he's thinking about, despite himself. Whose hands he's imagining on him.

A door slams loudly somewhere and the spell is broken. Adam looks around, startled, and Ronan swiftly slides his body behind the row of lockers, blocking himself from view. 

There's no footsteps walking this way, though, but Ronan hears Adam turn the water off, and he flees from the locker room as stealthily as he can. He shoves the bathroom door open, makes a cursory check to ensure no one's in any of the stalls. He's disgusted with what he just did and what he's doing now, but his hand's already wrapped around himself before he even locks the door.

He hates himself even more than usual in church that week.

*

The day after Adam kisses him for the first time, they're sitting in his car and he glances across at him for a second, consideringly, before saying it.

"I know you were looking at me." And that could mean the day before or the first time they met or a myriad of times but Ronan knows from the look on his face and his voice exactly which time he's thinking about.

"Yeah? And did you like it?" he says, apprehensive.

"I don't know. Maybe," he says quietly. He actually looks like he hasn't decided yet. Or maybe he did like it and isn't sure how he feels about that. "Did you like what you saw?"

There's no room for lies between them anymore, he knows, so he looks directly at him as he answers.

"Yeah. Definitely."


End file.
